29 the of april was a wee man-eating two-tone bee to a sticky koeksuster.
Like a geologist scrubbing rocks, and picking cavernous caves, so I've been searching the crusty cracks of this sprawling megalopolis to expose my serotonin.
Christie, a wee lad who I worked with in londres strums the lonely bass in his rock band called 'Bonsai'. Bonsai are gathering fame not from being picked, probed and clipped by mr Miyagi, but rather by their lyrical, sunny side up expression of afrikaans rock.
I hadn't seen the kid in a well rounded 8 months. He was gigging with his lads at back2basics- a live gig venue splashing out greasy grub on wooden décor. It's as cheap as east London chips, but lively as a punctured lung. It's perched just left of the energized centre of the cbd at the far end of the bowling lane that is over looked by johannesburg's two premier universities. One as liberal as a hooker and one formerly governed with an ironic fist.
Bonsai belts out rock in the trekkers tongue-afrikaanse. I hadn't been exposed to much of this genre of rock, rather close to a doughnut's worth. this was the eve that the radiation that is afrikaans rock would turn me from a green banana into a ripe one.
This Bunch of good lads, the guys that'd invite you over for a barby on a Sunday and share their smokes, dressed in Sunday's premier best, got me jumping and foaming at the mouth. Although the lyrics were alien to me, I was there to greet the wee li'l green men with open paws.
Foto na dans,the main act, robed in black skinny jeans with jewels breaching the boundaries of zippers, were bigger than the stage. Trying to fit these four pimpled skinny teens onto that raft of a stage was like trying to squeeze a t-bone steak through a straw. Their groupies were everything they weren't-blonde, sexy, lolly pop sucking sweet apples ready for the winter harvest. The lead with, a popsicle stick of a body and an oversized cotton ball for an afro, lead his charges into afrikaaner rapture. This was no boer vs british, it was the fight for the royale cause of rock n roll, Afrikaans rock.
The raggedy rag doll trumpeter, keyboardist and squealer, flung his mopped melon so hard I thought it'd pop off and bowl him an impressive 360. His blood shot eyes raged in fury, and bulged out of his head. Their industrialized rock made the iron ore manufacturing process look like a chocolate bar purveyor. These dudes were poets clad in cast iron battle armour. frenzied, their energy exhausted carbon monoxidous rage.
My Afrikaans is like the part population of iraq-sheeite, but I needn't 'praat die taal' to dig these dudes.
It was a cracker of an eve in which I had too a revelation. My new choice of brew is Windhoek. Sorry amstel it was all you my friend but then you shoved that blunt rusty meat cleaver through my heart.
stay well , be cool all my far flung, short sprung friends. from the scratchings of a Dan Ger ous lad.ole ole
No comments:
Post a Comment